War at Home
by control of chaos
Summary: Wars are almost always fought in far-off lands with unpronounceable names against some well-defined 'evil'. But other wars are small, barely noticeable, and they're the ones in front of us everyday. NOW A THREE-SHOT!
1. War at Home

*repeatedly bashes head into keyboard* These damn songs keep sparking one-shots that have absolutely _nothing_ to do with the five other stories I should be working on. But I got so few reviews on _Requiem for a Rising Star_ and _Not All That Is Over Is Past_ that this could also be considered my personal revenge. Muahahaha. Sure, an unplanned revenge, but revenge nonetheless.

Disclaimer: Do I really need to put this here? I never bother with it except when I have songfics. Lyrics aren't mine (because if I were Groban, I sure as hell wouldn't bother with writing if I had a voice like an angel), Alex Rider isn't mine (or I wouldn't be doing _fanfiction_ for it, clearly).

Keep in mind that this comes after _Scorpia Rising_, but it does not have **anything **to do with my other works. It's a standalone one-shot.

"**War At Home" – lyrics owned by Josh Groban**

* * *

><p>He woke at 3am, much earlier than he had ever gotten up since basic and Brecon Beacons. It should have been obvious that something was wrong from the first. His back didn't hurt from sleeping on rough ground, the air wasn't filled with the usual buzz of activity, and the soft, tiny hands encompassing his large, calloused one—the one with his unembellished and well-worn wedding band—were not ones he expected to feel for another three months when his tour was supposed to end.<p>

It took him longer to open his eyes than it should have, but when he had full view of his surroundings, it did nothing to ease his tension. His first words were inaudible through the oxygen mask tied with thin, green elastic around his mouth and nose.

As he stirred, the warm hands tightened. "James?"

Wolf turned his head somewhat awkwardly to get a better look at the small blonde. Her bright sapphire eyes were wide in equal parts surprise and delight. He wanted so much to ask where he was, how many days he had been unconscious, and where the rest of his unit was; but what he rasped out was, "Mel."

The simple rendering of his fiancée's name was enough to perk tears in Melissa Carol's eyes. "I have to get your brother from the hallway. He's been so worried. We've been worried," she corrected. "The doctor thought you weren't going to make it, but you showed him."

Before she could free her fingers from his grasp, he asked breathlessly, "What…happened?"

Her face twisted in pain. "You don't remember?" Wolf shook his head. "One of the other soldiers—I didn't catch a name—he said it was an IED (improvised explosive device) that got attached to either your vehicle or a nearby one. You got really lucky, James. Really, really lucky."

He wanted to ask what had happened to his teammates and the other unit that had been with them. Too fast for his digits to keep up, Melissa stood to plant a kiss on his forehead. "I'll get Gabriel. Just one second." The gesture was repeated, her child-like hands lightly combing through his hair, before she straightened up. With a reassuring smile, she was out the door in a rustle of silky white fabric.

It was only once his fiancée had left his hospital room that he noticed two interesting facts that had eluded him until now.

The room was not meant for only a single person to recuperate in. To his left, the curtains were drawn around the other bed. From the steady beeps emanating from the corner, someone was occupying the spot. However, he could see no personal effects or signs of visitors other than his fiancée and younger brother, Gabriel.

But what drew his immediate interest was the business woman with a laptop bag draped delicately over her shoulder. The woman who hadn't been here just a minute ago. Upon seeing that she had his attention, the bag was abandoned in the chair Melissa had previously occupied. "James Mendoza*, my name is Tulip Jones. I have a letter for you, but as you are currently incapacitated, I will summarize the contents. We regret to inform you that you and your teammate, Jake O'Reilly codenamed Snake, have been honorably discharged for the wounds and trauma sustained in your last assignment. For your actions and a string of highly successful commands during active operations, you have also been awarded the Distinguished Service Order."

Wolf used his lightly bandaged left hand to pull the breathing mask down from his mouth. "What about Eagle and…" He coughed heavily. "I mean, Ryan Marks and Marcus Tamney. Will they receive honorable discharge?"

Jones didn't blink. "They were killed in the explosion, Mr. Mendoza. Their families will receive benefits, and both will likely be awarded posthumously for their stellar records."

It didn't take long for her words to sink in.

_A fallen brother,_

_He's a…a fallen husband_

_He's about to be woken in his hospital bed_

_Doesn't want to rest_

_Just wants to run,_

_And he's tired of being told that he's the lucky one_

There are many jobs that no child grows up wanting, jobs that you don't sign up for, jobs so unrewarding that no raise in pay can compensate for the emotional onslaught you accept on a daily basis.

She drives a run-of-the-mill grey car, dresses in simple, unrevealing business suits, and wears a blank face. Her job involves doing the paperwork that no one else wants to do, making the decisions that no one else has the tenacity or heart to suggest, and making the calls that no one else can make without baring their own souls.

Today… Today is just another day. She extracts a peppermint from the spearmints hiding it in the silver tray, a morning ritual she has kept in practice since her days at the university. Another conversation to shatter another heart. Nothing to it; she makes it look flawless and simple.

Slipping into the back of the black van, she doesn't have to do more than compose her figure and give a sharp nod for the door to slide closed and her personal chauffeur to disengage the brakes, shooting headlong into early morning traffic.

She doesn't fiddle with the hem of her thickly woven skirt or shuffle the papers in her bag to pass the time. Her eyes are examining the quickly paced traffic with a cool gaze and her mouth has settled into a solid line of disinterest. It is as if she does not realize she has left her office, but in reality, she knows that the whole of Britain is the floor she walks into each morning. The office, with its countless burdensome responsibilities, has never left her. Not since she found herself getting an impromptu promotion.

From the time she steps on to the curb—her driver not even bothering to park—and smoothed the wrinkles from the soft material in her skirt, to her arrival in James Mendoza and Jake O'Reilly's shared long-term hospital room, she doesn't run over rehearsed condolences or assume to disposition of a kindly, caring woman.

This is Tulip Jones, the former deputy director under Alan Blunt and current director of MI6. She does not fritter over sweet words of mercy or bother concerning herself with what the man's reactions would undoubtedly be. This single woman holds the combined intelligence of every British operation under her metaphysical hat alongside those not stated or otherwise referenced in publically accessible records.

When she speaks, it is with the blunt disregard but keen knowing of one in her position. MI6's director, as she learned in tutelage under Blunt, cannot afford emotion. The media crows and lesser foes alike would prey upon it like sharks sensing the spill of fresh blood.

But, stepping back into the corridor of St. Dominics as Mendoza stumbled selflessly to his feet to pull aside the curtains hiding the still-comatose O'Reilly from light, she feels more than hears the phone in her coat buzz. The only cell phone number she maintains is a strictly private line, denoted for only the save few. Her surprised reaction to the number that glared in stark black up at her. Her voice is unusually gentle when she answers, but it has not lost the edge earned from years of exposure to the darker aspects of human civilization. This edge is not the hard, bitter one that her tone has a tendency to revert to when the office stress built up; this is the motherly edge that only mothers can attain through two decades of carefully molding a child through adolescence and into the independence of adulthood.

In this new mindset, Jones sat heavily on the bench, listening more than speaking through the open line. It was beyond her capabilities to sympathize with James Mendoza, but it didn't mean that she couldn't understand. Her own flesh and blood, and her only daughter, was in the Royal Air Force hitting the front lines as heavily as her ability allowed. It made her cringe when her daughter was infuriated by the lack of intelligence that her squadron was getting before having them fly in. At the top of the chain of command that she was griping about was Tulip Jones, making those decisions and calls that no one else can muster the will to.

The bottom line? Everyone had to wager something, and if things didn't go strictly according to script, her spies didn't get all the information she balanced their lives for, or someone in the field didn't do their job, she could lose the only thing she found precious.

As Mendoza's fiancée returned to the hospital room with another man in tow—Mendoza's brother or cousin, most likely—she closed her cell with a snap. The moisture threatening to spill was dabbed quickly away with the sleeve of her blouse. She reconsidered the now-retired soldier's room momentarily, and not specifically intending to right wrongs. Exchanging her phone for a ballpoint pen, she took a sheaf of blank computer paper from her computer bag, Jones dredged up all the bitter emotions of a military mother and widower as she scripted out the letter.

_A caped crusader,_

_She's a…newborn leader, but_

_You should see her when her daughter's on the phone_

_And she wipes the tears away_

_And she laces up because there's still Hell to pay_

_And it sure feels like Hell today_

_Today_

Her chauffeur pulls up to the entrance the moment that her heels click against the sidewalk. Nearly giving the man a heart attack, she quietly says, "I need to send a letter. Don't log it."

He nods, as is expected of him.

_And she says,_

'_You see these hands?_

_They're bruised and brown_

_They're yours alone_

_Hold on, love,_

_We're still going down_

_Hold on, love,_

_We're still fighting at home_

_The war at home'_

Yet another long day was ending as he slumped back in one of the kitchen chairs, homework tumbling helter-skelter across the table in front of him. He had been out with a doctor's appointment yesterday, and that extra work had only attached itself to the already massive stack he had accumulated. That isn't the reason that he feels so tired after one of the typical school days that he had missed so much over his absence.

He had been in a haze for over a week now. The doctor assured him that the feeling would pass with time, but it didn't reassure him then or at the moment. The house—not yet his until he turned eighteen—was more empty than he remembered it being only a month ago; but it didn't take much digging to understand that it wasn't only in his mind. It was indeed lacking one of its occupants, one fated never to step across its threshold again.

The microwave beeped thrice, announcing the completion of his early dinner. Leftovers were hardly his preference, but he was simply too tired to put anything more together. Tossing his maths book into his book bag, the rest of the textbooks and their corresponding assignments were neatly stacked on the far side of the table. Halfway through setting the table, he wearily realized that he had accidentally set an extra seat out of habit. He got back up to put the extra settings back and pull his small dinner from the microwave.

As he ate, he thought back on how his life was changing. He had declined the Pleasures' offer to adopt him into their household in California, despite Edward Pleasure's gracious invitation to spend at least a weekend with them to test the atmosphere. This was his uncle's home and, up until two weeks ago, Jack Starbright's home; he couldn't leave it behind with all of their possessions to go to strangers. He knew it was a silly thing. Not only that, but he had told Jones—Blunt's replacement, if he heard correctly—he had told her…

A knock resounded from the porch, and immediately his hand curled around the unused knife by his plate. Watching the floorboards as he crept up on the front door, he crouched down to peek out the small vertically inclined window panes that bordered the door. Seeing the familiar face of the mailman, he breathed a little easier and set the knife out of view by a vase of flowers.

"Sorry, I was putting some books away," he apologized as he opened the door. "What do you have for me?"

"An interesting letter for one Alexander Rider, with an even more interesting request attached to it," the man replied, taking off his hat to scratch at his receding hairline. "It was brought in with the intent of being hand delivered immediately rather than going into a pile of things to be delivered today. I informed the lovely lady that if she wanted it hand delivered, she should probably go about doing that herself, but she was quite insistent. Not that I minded, what with the personal tip and all." From a blue utility bag slung across his chest, he withdrew a rather plain white envelope. "She also said to give her condolences. Death in the family?"

He nodded halfheartedly. "Something of the sort. Thank you for the quick delivery. It is much appreciated."

The mailman only shook his head. "People these days. If you want something fast, send an email. You had another letter too, this one from the military it looks like. Thinking on joining?" He shrugged, and the man got his cue. With a small wave, he strode back the way he had come.

Alex watched his departure for a moment with cold eyes, eyes not befitting his age. Once he felt there were no hidden dark forces at work with his mail delivery, he shut and locked the door before moving back into the kitchen to tear open the envelopes, snatching up his knife as he passed it.

It was not what he had expected in the slightest, but he scarfed up the remains of his meal in haste. It was lightly raining, yet again, so he took a small umbrella and warm jacket. At quick glance, he knew from Google maps that the place wasn't far from his house, and even quicker he could tell that he didn't have the change for the short bus ride. Walking it was.

On the porch where the mailman had been standing, his breath materialized as a fog of transparent condensed air in front of his nose. He pulled the black scarf over his mouth and nose, opened the umbrella, and stepped out into the drizzle. At five on a Tuesday afternoon while England was under stinging winds and near-freezing rain, he ran into only the odd person looking to escape to warm roofs, or at least dry shelter.

By the time he reached the hospital half an hour later, Alex was bitterly regretting his lack of gloves and a heavier winter coat. Even his nose was a flushed pink to match his cheeks. The receptionist looked up from her Sudoku puzzle as his shoes squeaked on the tiled floor. "Can I help you?"

_Innocence behind his broken expression_

_He's a child of mercy_

_He's an unlearned lesson_

_And he's trying to wake up_

_From this wilderness his world has now become_

_He's reaching out to those he's running from_

He fell back into 'spy mode' with practiced ease. "I'm looking for my older brother. Jamie? Jamie Mendoza? Mom said he was in an…well, some kind of accident in Afghanistan."

Her face wrinkled in worry, but she said, "I'm sorry. Visiting hours are over for patients in critical care. You can come back tomorrow, if you'd like."

Mustering all his dignity and throwing it out the nearest window, he padded over to the desk and met her eyes with the best Bambi expression he could manage. "But Mom said he was really hurt; and she was worried about him and wanted to come but…but she has the flu, you see, and I have to see him!" He put his clasped hands up on the counter. "Please? I haven't seen him in months, ma'am."

She was clearly torn between doing her job without any exceptions and helping a kid who just wanted to see his brother again. It was a full five seconds before she came to a decision. "I have to go off-duty in an hour, but I think I can sneak you into his ward." The receptionist glanced inconspicuously around the empty lobby. Ushering him back behind her desk, she grabbed one of the wheelchairs sitting conveniently to the side. "Pretend to be in pain, close your eyes and clutch your stomach. Your brother is in one of the furthest rooms to the back."

With an innocent smile, he thanked her profusely before following her instructions.

There was a brief moment where Alex could have sworn that she had changed her mind, but then she was behind the chair pushing him briskly through the automatic doors. There was only one orderly that stopped them. To their mutual relief, she asked what she could do to help. The receptionist waved him off, saying his appendix had ruptured and they already had a room laid out for him. Whether it was her believable fabrication or Alex's loud moans as he writhed in the wheelchair, he was convinced and continued down the hall with the covered tray that filled his hands. Two automatic doors and one turn later, she patted his shoulder.

"Your brother's room is the one right there," she said, pointing out the door. "His name's on one of the files in that basket attached to the door, in case you leave and come back at some point. Try not to get caught." Before he could twist backwards in the chair to thank her again, the receptionist was gone.

He extracted his legs from the foot rests and tip-toed to the door, staying on the lookout for any nurses on the prowl for unwelcome visitors. Pressing his ear for the door, Alex listened for a doctor or other medical person that might be at work in the hospital room. Unable to pick up any voices, and hearing the click of approaching heels, he cracked the door open, slipped in fast, and shut the door as quietly as he could.

"Do I know you?"

Alex thought about leaving, saying it was a misinterpretation of the room number he'd been given, and escaping this long-dreaded reunion after the events at Point Blanc. Taking a deep breath to prepare for the plunge, he turned around with a solemn expression. "I couldn't afford a card, so I decided to stop by."

Getting an actual look at Wolf, he really did look like he'd been caught in an IED. Two parallel runs of stitching on his right forearm were lightly wrapped in gauze. Small scabbing cuts dotted the right side of his face here and there. Worst of all was his leg. He had a thick cotton blanket covering the lower half of his body, but the cast was obvious even without seeing it first-hand.

The connection came surprisingly quick, once he put together the card, his age, and the obvious recognition. "Cub? The hell are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at…at school or something? And how did you get this room number?"

"I have my ways," he said gravely, but grinned. "And it's almost six. School let out _hours_ ago."

Wolf did his best 'Don't give me this shit' expression, which was impressive if one considered the IV taped to his left elbow and the butterfly bandages holding together what hadn't required stitches.

Alex held out his hands in a warding gesture. "Hey, I just got this notice from SAS saying that K-Unit had run into serious problems in the Middle East. You guys sent me a nice card after I got shot, so the most could do was stop by. Have I mentioned that you look like shit, Wolf?"

Either he didn't take offense to the last comment, or he was too distracted by its predecessor. "We sent you a card when you got _appendicitis_. What's this about getting shot?"

"Oh they gave a cover story. Sneaky bastards." He got a glare for his tactless evasion. "It was nothing. I made these people mad, they sent a sniper after me, and in the end everyone was happy. Don't take it personally. Even SAS just told me that you guys were in a car accident. Jones told me the rest of it, though it's frankly quite obvious from my vantage point here."

"I'm not _even_ going to ask. But really, aren't your parents worrying about you? You must have snuck in, because the rest of my family had to leave at five."

"My family? No. They wouldn't mind."

"That seems insensitive."

He deadpanned. "They're dead."

The former-soldier was speechless for a second. "All of them?"

Alex took tallies in his head. "Unless I have some mysterious second cousin who's gone into hiding… Yep, I can safely say that they're all gone."

"Then who's taking care of you?"

His immediate answer was "Jack", but midway through her name he remembered the harsh reality of his situation. "No one," he corrected. "How is the rest of K-Unit, by the way? The letter from SAS never gave specifics, and Jones only mentioned you."

It was Wolf's turn to have a shadow fall over his face. "Snake's over there." He jerked a hand in the direction of the curtained bed. "Concussion from the IED. Part of his skull has hairline fractures. Went into a coma two weeks ago and hasn't woken up since."

The teenager frowned. He had been under the assumption that Wolf had been the only one grievously injured and forced into early retirement, but this changed things. "And Eagle? Where's he?"

"Him and Falcon are dead. Killed instantly by shrapnel." His voice went up a little in pitch, the only hint that their deaths had devastated him.

Alex sat in one of the chairs by Wolf's bed and bent over forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands propping up his head. "Damn. That's… Damn." The casualties were piling up exponentially from his point of view, and it didn't look to be stopping anytime in the near future.

_And he says_

'_You see these hands?_

_They're bruised and brown_

_They're yours alone_

_Hold on, now_

_We're still going down_

_Hold on, now_

_We're still fighting'_

"You didn't ask about Fox."

'So he knows how to change subjects, too,' he thought ruefully. "Didn't have to. I saw Ben a couple days ago. Just fine, if you didn't know, except the eye patch. He said it was temporary."

Wolf shook his head in disbelief. "What are the chances that you two would run into each other?"

"Higher than you might think," Alex chuckled. He lifted his head up, folding his arms across his lap. "We work together. You might have heard of our company. Military Intelligence, Section 6?"

"Fox, maybe," he snorted, probably trying and failing to imagine his teammate as a spy. "You? No. Point Blanc was one thing, but…no. That's just illegal, plain and simple. Besides, what would your pare—" Wolf stopped as the pieces clicked together. "Oh. But that's just…"

"Wrong? Yeah, but it makes life a lot less boring."

They both fell silent, unable to think of anything else to bring up that wouldn't be completely insensitive to the other.

"Which brings me back to the question: What are you doing here?" Wolf repeated, leaning forward as much as he could—which wasn't much.

"Jones," the teenager groaned, sinking back down on to his palms. "My boss, she threatened me with the resident psychologist if I didn't stop by." That was a complete and utter lie, but one close enough to the target that it was believable. Her eloquent words, and the startling emotion she had poured into them, had essentially shocked him into coming. That, and the psychologist she had threatened him with in a post-script at the end. "I think she feels this will be remedial. Or something."

"Jones? As in Tulip Jones?"

"She's the only one I know of."

He let out a resigned sigh, but didn't expand on the subject. "We're quite the pair."

_And it's_

_One step forward, two steps back_

_This is young and old_

_One step forward, two steps back_

_Through the void of the silence_

_You are not alone_

"Jack was killed."

Wolf's head whipped sideways, leaving him with a pounding migraine. "What?"

"You told me about K-Unit, so I should probably give something in return. Jack was my housekeeper. She's been my legal guardian since my uncle, and last blood relative, died last year. I made enemies of the wrong people. Those people killed her in front of me." And yet he was able to say that sentence as if it were just a jumble of meaningless words. His eyes were vacant, but they looked at a far wall, not concentrating on anything in particular. He said the words without emotion, but the emotion was still there, boiling just under the surface. "That's…the other reason I'm here. Your unit has been incapacitated and killed, the last of my family was just murdered. I guess we're in the same boat now."

Wolf considered that. "I guess we are. This has to be the single most depressing conversation I've ever had."

"That's what I'm here for," he agreed. Getting a glance at the clock, he gathered up his umbrella and wet jacket. "I still have homework to catch up on and get to bed early tonight, but I can maybe stop by tomorrow afternoon. After hours, if you don't mind. I'm not as comfortable around strangers as I used to be."

A strange idea came to the former-soldier's mind. He shot it down at first, but reconsidering it a second time thought to voice it. "What are you doing for Christmas**?"

"Christmas?" The teenager leaned into the back of the chair, stretching like a cat. "I guess… I don't know. Haven't really thought past tomorrow, much less to next weekend. Last year it was just Jack and Tom, a friend from school. I haven't even said more than two or three sentences to Tom since I got back."

"Without K-Unit, it'll just be my fiancée and brother. I'm sure they wouldn't mind if you stopped over."

"I'd be imposing. Christmas is supposed to be with family and friends."

"And I'll be missing three of them. Four if I can't get in contact with Fox between now and then. You won't even have family. What do you say?"

_You see these hands?_

_They're millions strong_

_They are yours now_

_Hold on now_

_We're all going down_

He found himself smiling, actually smiling no matter how small it was. "How could I turn down a request like that?"

_Hold on now_

* * *

><p>AN: Did that seem reeeeeally long to anybody else? *facekeyboards* It was supposed to be a tiny one-shot, I swear. Obviously *glances at word count* this is a perfect example of roads paved with good intentions.

Made corrections thanks to some great reviewers. I can't possibly name all of them here, but there were a lot. Thanks to all of you!

*Yes, I am incredibly lazy to the point of not changing his name. Deal with it. I like the name.

**Dammit, I _know_ that the events of _Scorpia Rising_ go from January/February-ish to who-knows-when (March, I think? April?), but I wanted the Christmas thing so there. Ignore the technicalities and go back to reading.

Oh yes, a final note to readers: you bash the kind of music I listen to, and I bash you. Literally. Flames should be saved for marshmallows. You don't like, you don't read. Not that any of you wonderful people would do that. ^^ No, you would go leave a review telling me how much you liked it.


	2. Believe

Happy Holidays! I had a couple requests to do a Christmas sequel to _War at Home_, so with the end of finals, I figured that would be a great way to get the writing blood flowing again.

Once again, I have no claim to either Groban's music/lyrics or Horowitz's characters/story line. I do, however, own this lovely new flashdrive. Who knew that 16GB could be so small?

"**Believe"—lyrics owned by Josh Groban**

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><p>Alex woke up late, which was in and of itself an unusual event. Add to that the restful sleep he'd enjoyed, the promise of a warm breakfast wafting up to his nose, and the fresh bandages on his arm, and he was entering a damn fantasy novel. Yeah, and maybe Blunt had actually been his fairy godmother sans the sparkly wings, magic wand and cheesy smile.<p>

Despite his growing concern over the list of strange occurrences, he carefully stretched out under the covers before slipping out of his warm blankets. The floorboards were cold; being winter, it wasn't completely unexpected, but it didn't make it any more pleasant. His need for socks was only outweighed by his stomach's demanding growls. Whoever was making those pancakes had some serious talent.

He crept down the stairs on silent feet, subconsciously avoiding all the places that would creak. He _had_ lived in this place for nearly the entirety of his life after all. If he couldn't sneak around his own house, then he had no right to be a spy. Sneaking a glance around the corner, Alex looked to see who had managed to get into the kitchen.

"You really think he wants coffee with breakfast?"

"Hey, who's known Alex longer? You or me? Besides, that was all Ian drank. It must be hereditary, though I can't imagine how anyone could like that bitter crap."

Deciding that there was no malicious intent involved in his strange morning, he interrupted their conversation. "Tom Harris, you had better not be the person who shut my alarm off."

The pajama-clad teenager with brilliant blue eyes and black hair put up in spikes immediately moved to point an accusatory finger at the man looking very much like a modern-day pirate with his faded jeans, the dark trench coat he had tossed over one chair and the eye patch over his left eye. "Don't look at me. Your spy/pirate friend here was the one who _insisted_ that you sleep in a couple more hours."

He raised his eyebrow at Ben Daniels, who shrugged unapologetically as he flipped a pancake over. Tom had a point. The eye patch was somewhat off-putting, but the doctor had informed them that his sight would be back to normal within another month, he could remove the patch within a week, and the scarring would be minimal. "Your arm looked kind of infected and you hadn't had the common sense to even sterilize it. So I treated it, wrapped it up and might have accidentally shut off your alarm clock in the process."

Past the spy's shoulder, Tom was overdramatically rolling his eyes. Alex had to hold in his laughter. The two of them made quite the pair with the frilly aprons tied around their waist. "What are you guys doing here anyway? Shouldn't you be elsewhere doing…" he gestured at the work-in-progress in front of him, "…something else?"

Tom huffed, managing to look decently indignant. "It's _Christmas_, Alex. You remember what that means or do I need to describe it for you?"

"Yeah, but… You two have families too."

His schoolmate was distinctly amused by this. "Did you get a concussion and forget what my parents are like? Jerry was going to swing around later tonight to bring presents and stuff, but until then I'm not going to listen to my mother yell her lungs off. She was making a couple of the dishes into flying saucers last I saw. So I left, broke into your house, and made myself some tea. Oh, and started up the coffee. You still like it black right?"

"And do you really see a bachelor sitting with his mother singing 'Jingle Bells' by the fireplace?" Ben asked, handing him a pair of pancakes drowning in maple syrup with mini chocolate chips floating atop the pile. "I figured your house would be awfully quiet without my wonderful presence. Besides," he gestured at the plate he was holding, "free pancakes. How can you complain?"

Alex resignedly sighed, pulling one of the chairs out. "I guess I really can't," he admitted. He sawed a piece of the fluffy cake off, stabbed it and plopped it in his mouth. "Mmm 'ese awe good."

Tom grinned, grabbing his own plate of goodness and dumping the cup of coffee in front of him, his own tea already by his pre-claimed spot. "I tested them for poison, just to make sure," the teenager reassured him. He stuffed at least half the pancake in his mouth. "H'du oo y'ur rm?"

Flicking a spoon at him, Ben poured more batter into the pan. "Keep your mouth closed when you eat, Tom Harris. That's absolutely disturbing."

He swallowed before replying, "Who died and made you my mother? As I was saying, how'd you hurt your arm, Alex? I thought you weren't doing any more of the Bond stuff and sticking to Brookland Penitentiary-I mean Comprehensive?"

"I-" Getting a look from his sometimes-partner, he finished chewing his food. "It wasn't MI6 stuff. There was something suspicious about one of the stores on my route home. All I did was pop in and overhear some people saying some stuff they obviously didn't want anyone to hear, and it all just went downhill from there."

"So that's the story behind that arson fire," Ben muttered, flattening a pancake-to-be with the spatula. "You start it or them?"

Alex drew vague designs in the air with his fork, dripping syrup on the table that he quickly wiped up. "I might have _accidentally_ knocked over a _little_ kerosene or something on the floor and irritated one of the guys enough that he tried to light my arm on fire, but it was really his fault for carelessly using a lighter that way. You'd really think these people would use their heads every once in a blue moon."

"Seems a li'l harsh," Tom mumbled around the pancake in his mouth, " 'ightin' someone on fire."

"I try explaining this to them…" He swirled another piece of pancake around the plate to coat it in syrup and took a bite. "E'ry time's 'e same."

Ben heaped another pancake on each of their plates and tossed the bottle of syrup between them. "Eat up, kiddos. My hands are tired, so this is all you get." He fell back into the chair across from Alex, slinging an arm over the back and curling his fingers around a steaming mug. The eye patch made it difficult to tell exactly where and what he was looking at.

Scarfing the rest of his breakfast down within a disturbingly brief span of time, Tom pointed enthusiastically at the kitchen window. "Alex, did you see the snow?" he asked excitedly. "We actually got a decent snowfall this year! I bet there's a whole inch out there already."

Alex shook his head, laying his fork and knife on the syrupy plate. "I'll have to see it to believe it. An inch in one night?"

_Children sleeping, snow is softly falling_

_Dreams are calling like bells in the distance_

Five minutes later, Alex was sitting on the porch steps holding his hands out palms up to the grey sky watching thick flakes drift down to melt on his flushed fingertips. Tom was standing in the doorway, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a triumphant smirk stretched across his face. "You were wrong," he turned around to look up at his friend. "This looks like a lot more than an inch."

"I made a guess, and that was a couple hours ago. It was probably an inch then." He stepped out enough to glance at the overshadowed sky. "And I think it's snowing harder now."

"All I hear are excuses, Tom." Alex returned his attention to the street dusted white by the snow. They must have been cleared recently for traffic to be able to maneuver.

The smirk twisted into one of distaste, but nevertheless, Tom pulled the blanket tighter around him and braved the cold to sit next to Alex, following his gaze to watch a passing car. "I know you lied, just to be clear. You couldn't stop working for MI6, even if you really wanted to. I really… I hoped you were telling the truth, but I knew you weren't."

Alex rubbed his arm—the bandaged one—thoughtfully, as if recalling how it had come to be that way. It was exactly as he had said, but the fact that MI6 didn't have to be involved for him to get himself in trouble did nothing to help. "I had a choice."

"No," he said quietly, shaking his head either to emphasize his point or disengage the white flakes adhering to his dark hair. "Maybe you did once, but that time in Italy when you ran off to who-knows-where…you looked alive again. Since Ian died and you came back from that first long absence, that's the only time I've seen you like that."

A flake, smaller than the pad of his pinky finger, landed on the end of his nose. It took a few seconds for it to melt entirely, but he watched it shrink until it vanished. "There might be some truth to that," Alex murmured halfheartedly.

_We were dreamers not so long ago_

_But one by one we all had to grow up_

He glanced down at his watch. "I have to go. Someone to meet. Stay as long as you want, but make sure to lock the house up."

Tom frowned. "On Christmas?"

"Not work stuff, I swear. It's a…a friend, sort of." The word tasted odd to him, but felt right.

"A friend?" The teenager's smirk returned full blast as the somber mood flipped on a whim. "Oh you are sneaky, lover boy."

"Not that kind of friend! Y-you are a terrible person, Tom." He rolled his eyes and stood up, getting the chill out of his legs. "Just because I don't get along with most people doesn't mean that I can't actually get along with people besides you."

Tom chuckled and shook his head, but followed him back in with blue tingling fingers. Even Alex had times when he could be such a teenager.

_When it seems the magic's slipped away_

_We find it all again on Christmas day_

* * *

><p><em>Believe in what your heart is saying<em>

_Hear the melody that's playing_

_There's no time to waste_

_There's so much to celebrate_

Ben settled into the kitchen chair, humming quietly along to the softly playing Christmas music that had been littering the radio since early December and warming his hands on a steaming porcelain cup of Earl Gray. It was his third one, yes, but who was counting?

The truth was he did have family. His father and two brothers—one two years older; the other four and a half years younger—were getting together today for lunch. Whether or not his mother would make it was a question of whether or not she felt like making time for it in her hectic schedule. She was a workaholic to the bone, and couldn't change that even for her family.

He hadn't thought about them in…almost a year.

Alex walked back in, running back up the stairs while saying something about meeting a friend. He was tossing a scarf around his neck minutes later when he returned to the kitchen. Some kind of present in simple green wrapping paper with a slim red ribbon gathering from all four sides to coalesce in a small bow was tucked carefully beneath one arm. From this distance, and at the speed the teenager was moving, he couldn't even make a guess as to what it was. "I'll probably be out until late tonight. If you guys leave, make sure to lock the door and turn off all the lights." With a wave and hesitation in which he realized exactly how much snow there was, he switched his sneakers for boots and slipped out the door.

Tom reclaimed his seat sulking at the round table. "He won't tell me who the girl is."

"The girl? Why does it have to be a girl?"

"Well I didn't figure him to be into guys."

Ben brought his hands up before he could snort his sip of tea out his nose. Once the drink was safely ingested, he put his head in his hands. "Oh God no. No, I was trying to say that he might be taking it to a friend. I really can't imagine that he would want to date… Well, not right now anyway."

"I know he's still in MI6," the teenager deadpanned, and the spy winced. "But he doesn't really know anyone else around here well enough to hand out presents." A curious expression crossed his face. "Hmm. Hey, you should be able to figure it out, right? I mean, that's kind of your job requirement."

He shook his head, draining the dregs of the Earl Gray. "I have a Christmas lunch to go to at eleven, so I should leave soon." The cup went into the dishwasher next to the breakfast plates.

"And here you told Alex that you didn't want to sit around with the old lady and got away with it." Tom propped his head up on his entwined fingers, his elbows seated on either side of his own cup. "Tell me your secret," he demanded, but in a slow dark way that reminded him of some evil clichéd Bond super-villain. This kid must have multiple personalities to flip demeanors so suddenly.

"No lie. I just hadn't thought about it until you two went out to look at the snow. I haven't seen either of my brothers since I joined the SAS. Sam's just finished his first semester at uni and Tanner probably has a co-op with one of the hospitals lined up."

"Brothers are great. I think that all my brother wants this year is to see Alex do another of those BASE jumps. That, or for our parents to leave him alone. He's going to let me stay with him in Italy for the holidays, you know. Two whole weeks at least. Being a teacher has its perks." A crease marred his forehead.

"And? Isn't that a good thing?"

"Leaving Alex alone for two weeks spells nothing but trouble," he frowned. "Like he said, he attracts trouble like a magnet, even without leaving the area."

The spy clapped a hand on his shoulder. "No worries. I'll make sure he doesn't get himself in over his head."

His frown deepened, but the glitter returned to his eyes. "Oh you clearly don't know Alex Rider very well."

_Believe in what you feel inside_

_And give your dreams the wings to fly_

_You have everything you need_

_If you just believe_

* * *

><p>"How <em>do<em> you keep sneaking in here?"

Alex had snuck silently on his socks into Wolf's hospital room. His boots would have tracked melted snow and mud all through the corridors, leaving a trail right to the former-soldier's room. They were currently stored in one of the nurses' closets. His feet were small enough that the tall dark boots would fit right in the mix.

His face took on an almost…angelic…appearance as he held his clasped hands up to an invisible counter. "But miss… Mom broke her ankle and Dad isn't here anymore and he'll be really lonely if no one's here for Christmas while he doesn't feel well. Can't I just take Mom's chocolates down to Jamie really quickly?" The teenager bowed in response to the applause emanating from the bed closest to the window. Of course, that was the way he got in last time, but it sounded a lot sneakier than saying he had found his way around the larger vents much simpler than weaving up an excuse to hand the receptionist. "The nurses are always suckers for sob stories. At least, that's what Jack told me whenever she came to visit."

"I'm glad I could learn something today," Wolf rolled his eyes.

The soldier's fiancée and brother had done their best to bring the holiday spirit to the dull hospital ward. There were all kinds of cards and even a couple flowers on one of the tables by the wide window. A half-meter tall plastic pine tree with what looked to be hand-made paper ornaments and pale yellow lights glittering was supported at eye-level by one of the visitor's chairs. A trash bag—the smaller kind— stuffed to the brim with a muddle of scintillating confetti and shredded paper was sitting ominously in a shadowy corner. He pointed it out to Wolf, asking, "Is someone trying to get on the the staff's bad side, or did that really get approved?"

He shrugged. "I'll have to ask my brother. I'm supposed to be here until late January for no apparent reason other than to piss me off, so I guess he wants to do something for New Year's."

Wolf had been in the equivalent of a car accident while on tour in Afghanistan with his unit. He'd been severely concussed for something on a month. His leg was still embalmed in the plaster cast and the parallel lines of stitching running from elbow to wrist of his right arm were covered by a thinner layer of bandages than before, but the small cuts and bruises that had previously been scattered across the right side of his face and neck had visibly healed.

The rest of his unit hadn't been so lucky. One comatose, the rest instantly killed.

He was brought out of his silent examination when the door opened. "James, Aunt Mallory sent presents from France. I think she made you another scarf."

Gabriel Mendoza, the youngest of the brothers, was also by far the scrawniest. He was as tall, if not taller, than James, but his shoulders were less broad, his features softer, and his limbs thinner; combined with the silver rectangular frames perched precariously on his nose and the Santa hat keeping his ears warm, it made for a very…un-Wolf-like appearance.

On the contrary, he appeared to have traded in the brawn for brains. It didn't take him long to take in the rather short stranger. "Umm, James? You have something you'd like to tell me?" His voice immediately set the young spy on edge for some reason.

Before Wolf could speak, Alex beat him to the punch. "I'm Jake's adopted brother. James and I met when I visited him on Tuesday." He stuck his hand out. "Hope you don't mind if I intrude on your Christmas."

Wolf threw him an odd glance, probably wondering how he had managed to get a hold of Snake's name or why he was making up stories.

"Not at all," he reassured, shaking his hand. "I've never seen anyone here for him before, so it's good to know that someone's here for him. He's never mentioned you before, though." Gabriel was perceptive, and Alex inwardly groaned.

"It was a recent…thing." Sometimes, elaborating stories made them even more suspicious. Simplicity raised in truth is the easiest to accept.

"Sorry for the Twenty Questions," he apologized sheepishly. "I don't know if you knew Eagle or Falcon—"

For some reason, that hit him hard. "I knew _of _them." He had known them, but not the sides that Wolf and his brother did. The fact that he never would was like realizing there was a gap in his memories that couldn't be filled in. It hurt in a way he hadn't felt before.

Gabriel nodded. "They were good guys. Used to come over during their holidays. It'll certainly be a lot quieter."

"A _lot_ quieter," Wolf muttered, but in a way that suggested he had never been bothered by the noise.

His brother looked down and noticed the box in his hand. "Oh yeah, your package. I already opened mine and," they could see the dark cobalt scarf embroidered with large snowflakes at either end wrapped around his neck and thrown carelessly over one shoulder "she tends to give us the same things."

Alex had forgotten to wear gloves yet again, so his icy fingers had lost most of the feeling in them. Maybe he'd learn next time and take the tube. This was the most likely reason he had forgotten about the presents clasped in his left hand. "I brought something small over too."

Wolf frowned as he took the growing stack of presents. "I never did ask, but how'd you get over here, Alex?"

"Walked." At the look he got from the Mendoza brothers, he shrugged. "I like the snow and it wasn't a long walk. Tube's for the lazy."

_Trains move quickly to their journey's end_

_Destinations are where we begin again_

"Thanks."

The mailman had walked away with a bounce in his step, unaware of the despair he had just delivered, because this was Christmas; and even if he had no family to return to there was a cheerfulness that floated on the breeze and laughter on every corner he passed.

A day later, a man in an off-black trenchcoat and dark gloves regretted not wearing boots as he stepped off the Tube. It never snowed this hard in London—no, in England—but that didn't change the small drifts he had to avoid traipsing through. He scuffed his boots on the curb in an attempt to shake off the majority of the fluff adhered to his shoes. It worked. Sort of.

Pulling his collar up to catch some of the bitter wind and whipping snow, he walked the short distance to the hospital's wreath and holly furnished double doors. The receptionist took the letter when he handed it to her, unable to find his voice, and she gave him the room number. "That pair are quite popular today," she remarked, taking in the lines on his forehead, the lightly swollen eyes and the message he delicately retrieved. "I'd say you look worse than them."

He weakly nodded, following her directions down the corridor.

_Ships go sailing far across the sea_

_Trusting starlight to get where they need to be_

It was with surprise that he met Alex's eyes, but even greater dismay when he met Wolf's.

Ben was well acquainted with the Mendozas, as well as Eagle's. Snake had never had much of a family, as his mother had died of tuberculosis-turned-pneumonia that was diagnosed and treated months too late only two months after he had been accepted into the SAS. He never spoke of his father. After dropping more than enough hints, they had stopped trying to broach the subject altogether.

The Mendozas, on the contrary, were a close-knit group. Despite living about as far apart as they possibly could, they all managed constant correspondence and never forgot birthdays. Ben hadn't seen all of them himself, but he'd heard more than enough stories to span a lifetime.

But Melissa Carol and Gabriel Mendoza, those two came with Wolf. He recognized them immediately. When Melissa had finished law school, in the airport as Wolf left for his first SAS mission, at the opening of Gabriel's independent bookstore, it was like a game of spot the other two. Even now they were in chairs on opposite sides of the room, but still in the same place as Wolf.

"You look terrible," Wolf noted optimistically. Ben wasn't the only one who noticed that his swearing automatically corrected itself when Melissa came within hearing range. The former soldier's eyes fell to the crinkling letter in his hand. His face fell. "Oh…"

Gabriel looked from his brother to Ben, and took the chance to stand up. "I'll be in the hallway." Melissa took his cue and followed him out, smiling to Wolf and telling him they'd be right back.

Only once they were gone did Ben nod at Wolf. "You okay?"

"Will be."

"Right." For the moment, Gabriel's seat lost its vacancy. "I didn't…didn't know. This… Alex?"

The young spy was sitting on the edge of Snake's bed, carefully out of the way of the machines and IV tubing. He nodded. "I got a letter from SAS, but I got some BS about a car accident. Basically told me nothing. Jones sent me a second notice warning that if I didn't visit, she'd stick me in a white room with some high-paid psychologist."

"That was Monday… Tuesday-ish?"

"Tuesday, how'd you guess?"

"You let Tom Harris come over after school Wednesday, and then returned my six trillion calls. I hear from Tom that you even laughed at one point. I figured something had happened."

Alex frowned. "Did you…_just_ get the notice?"

"Yeah," he muttered in reply, swiping a sleeve at his nose as he sniffled. "Dammit, I never thought this was how we would get back together. Sorry for not making it last Christmas or when Eagle proposed the get-together at that one bar. I was…er…recovering both times."

There was a small cough as Alex pulled a guilty expression, hiding it by straightening out the sheets on Snake's bed. Wolf barely spared him a glance, deciding he'd rather not know. "We never held you to it. Eagle and Falcon had figured that you'd finally gotten yourself laid, though," he looked on with amusement as Ben flushed an unhealthy shade of red and the teenager nearly fell over, wracked with laughter, "I can guess that the chances of that have gone down significantly since you left the SAS. You know, if the nurses weren't so damn evil, I think we should discuss this over bourbon."

"You mean drown ourselves in bourbon. Maybe once they release you, Gabriel can drive you over."

"At least we don't have to worry about Eagle getting himself a glass," Wolf sighed. "Falcon could drink us all under the table, though. His tolerance was downright ungodly."

Ben leaned forward on his elbows. "Remember that time when we were part of the way through the SAS testing, at the beginning, and Eagle had bribed someone to sneak him Pixy Stix?"

"Oh God, don't remind me." With his one arm pinned down by the short IV tube, he sighed into his left fist. "That was… I could have sworn that we were going to get tossed out of Selection for sure."

_When it seems that we have lost our way_

_We find ourselves again Christmas day_

Alex chuckled at the reminiscing duo. Any tears were due only to exuberant laughter. At one point, he noticed Gabriel softly closing the door again, and sent a brief wave his way. He received a smile in return.

It appeared that this Christmas would be considerably less lonely than he had figured.

_Believe in what your heart is saying_

_Hear the melody that's playing_

_There's no time to waste_

_There's so much to celebrate_

_Believe in what you feel inside_

_And give your dreams the wings to fly_

_You have everything you need_

_If you just believe_

"Hey, Wolf, is that monitor supposed to be doing that?"

"Shit!"

"Snake, go back to sleep while we pull this tube out."

"Are you trying to help him or _strangle _him, Ben? I think he's turning blue."

"Shut up! I know what I'm doing."

"Do you really?"

_If you just believe_

* * *

><p>Argh, so sorry about the wait. And after that…you get this little bitty one-shot.<p>

TT_TT

Anyway, I have a **whole week** where I don't have to do anything but type my fingerprints off. I'm not going to take votes as to what gets updated first, because I'm working on them simultaneously. [_Yes, I may have a deathwish._] So here's a glass [_even though I'm underage_] to sleepless nights, caffeine, antibiotics, Craig Ferguson, caffeine, sugar, caffeine…and band-aids. And glowing keyboard stickers. [_Shout out to _NightmareWorld_ and _ _for those. She knows exactly what I need…_]

And for a special twisted reviewer out there [_who should still be drawing circles_], I am making this into a _three_-shot. There were many wonderful reviews asking for a Christmas sequel, but few had the guts…the audacity…to go as far as they did. For that, I tip my hat [_I finally got a Fedora!_] in their direction and they shall have their reward…

…eventually.


	3. Higher Window

Anyone reading this who has previously heard this song, don't think of it in the way Groban/his song writer meant for it to mean. I listened to this song and thought... Well I can't tell you that yet.

Important Note: Please listen to this song while reading. **If you cry or even **_**think**_** you are going to cry at any point in time, leave me a review saying so**. It can be as short as 'you bitch' or 'you got me', but my twin, _NightmareWorld_ and I are making bets. Thanks!

**Higher Window – lyrics owned by Josh Groban**

* * *

><p>It had been a year. A whole year, dammit!<p>

Wolf paced the floor of his kitchen impatiently. It had actually been more like a year, three months, and something-odd-days, but that wasn't what mattered.

Since that Christmas, he had recovered full mobility of the leg the doctors had thought it would take four months of rehabilitation and minor surgeries to walk on unassisted again. It took one. His wife—then fiancée—joked that it was sheer force of will that did it. Whatever it was, he had required only one small surgery to remove a piece of shrapnel they caught in an x-ray and there had never been any official rehab. Rather, he stubbornly refused the wheelchair once released from the hospital's care and moved straight to stumbling around on crutches for two weeks. Then one crutch for nine days. There were a handful of days where he used the walls and his brother as frequently as not, but by the end of a month's time, Wolf was limping around on his own. Even the awkward gait straightened out within the next four weeks.

The day following his hospital release, he had gotten the first letter. This one, unlike the ones that would follow, was hand-delivered via Ben. Alex, as the letter stated, was already on an early flight to Nürnberg, where he would transfer over to another plane going to an undisclosed location. Sure, Alex knew where that plane was supposed to land, but clearly he either wouldn't or couldn't share that information. Ben said he had to be at Heathrow within the hour to catch his own ride out, but he stayed long enough to laugh at Wolf's current state and nearly wind up crippled himself. Of course, Wolf had to retort that he still looked like a pirate, which got him a light pillow to the face.

He hadn't seen either of them since.

Sure, there had been a couple letters that came after that at uneven intervals that sometimes stretched as long as two months. Most of them were postmarked from places all around the world, but every single one had gone through Zürich and been placed in a larger envelope before being sent on to him. While the new envelope had only the nom de plume Alfred Cynewulf—never a return address—as the sender, the enclosed one bore the name Alexander Rider.

The letters were never specific, but he did say that he had to get a flat just outside London with a false ID using one of his aliases. That address he _had_ trusted to Wolf, in case he needed to get in touch. Someone with ill-intentions had gotten the location of his house, luckily while he was away on 'work'. Needless to say, he had not returned after getting a call from MI6. He mentioned a picture in his living room briefly. It was the only one he knew of that had both his uncle, Ian Rider, and former guardian, Jack Starbright, in the same picture. While he didn't ask for it outright, Alex merely stated that it was the only thing of value he would miss.

He had found it, but not until the police had removed the tape from front door. The lock had not been replaced—though it would have to be at some point in that condition—and he had easily gotten in. The indicated picture was easy enough to find, once he made a short detour around the heavily bloodstained sections of carpet. In between the grinning red head and more reserved male in a fine black suit, a boy that must have been Alex only a couple years earlier was supporting a snowboard in one hand, skiing goggles dangling from his fingertips. Just to the side of that photo, however, was the only other one that he had seen since entering. A couple, widely smiling and eternally young, was decked in wedding attire. The picture, by the wear on both the flower-embellished silver frame and the portrait itself, had to be over a decade old. When he picked it up, intending to return it and the one mentioned in the letter, he noticed the dark blue cursive penned lower left corner on the back. There was a date beside the names John Rider and Helen Beckett.

With the two pictures in hand, he did not venture further into the house. It wasn't his to traverse freely in, after all.

Another funny thing about Alex's letters was that he didn't hesitate to mention injuries he'd sustained. They were largely the kind that would fade quickly given time—burns, shallow grazes, bruises—and there weren't so many that he was overly worried; but there was mention of him being impaled by a sword once, a near-drowning another time, and claw marks from someone's pet tiger. When he was shot at, he never said how badly he had been injured. Those types of incidents were the ones that made him wonder what wasn't being mentioned. His best guess as to why he included the injuries was that the teenager didn't want to cause any worry when he returned in worse condition than he had left in.

Ben's adventures and condition appeared in the majority of the letters. They were partners, after all. From the tone, he was collecting just as many injuries, though he had missed out on the worst of them. A medevac was mentioned, but never expanded on, in one letter regarding the older spy and cliff scaling. Other people, left nameless, received their due credit as well.

He wasn't always doing work with MI6 or another agency, though. Over Christmas, which he regretted not being able to get back to England for, he spent the holiday with an American family, the Pleasures, in California. Due to multiple cancellations, Ben spent his own holiday in southern France with family. As of late January, they were meeting in Italy to receive mission details.

_For all the times I tried for this_

_And every chance at you I missed_

_I've been known to go my way but I confess_

But the last letter he had received, the one from a month and a half ago, was a short one. "I'm coming home." The lack of postmarks further out than Madrid was a clear indication that he was much closer than when he had mailed the previous one, which had passed through Tokyo.

So why had Alex not visited?

_It made me miss you more_

His first guess was that he had been injured at some point and was sitting in a ward, waiting to be released by his attending physician. He had no doubt that it was possible. But when the two weeks had stretched to four and then six, he called Snake.

The former medic had spent another month in the room they had shared since waking somewhat uncomfortably from his concussion-induced coma. Though he couldn't return to military service, even if he had wanted to, after having a knee replaced and with his ankle supported by a plastic brace, Snake did follow through with medicine. He now worked for St. Dominics, a private hospital reserved for those who had the money or, apparently, were employed by either MI6 or MI5. This had only been discovered because Ben had come in for a brief period of time to get his patch-covered eye checked. They had passed in the hallway and spoken until the spy declared that he had a report to turn in. Alex hadn't been with him, or in the country. According to Ben, he was 'on lease' again.

It took three hours to catch Snake off-duty, and his answer was "Nothing on record since last May. He had a check-up scheduled for last week, though. When you find him, send him in."

His second guess was that a mission had gone wrong. In that case, his partner would have to know where he had gone.

With that he phoned Ben next, under the assumption that he would answer his cell phone because he wasn't on a mission for MI6. Whether by a stroke of luck, or due to Ben recovering from a bad case of the flu, he answered on the second ring.

"James, I'm a little busy." A sneeze followed. "And I _was_ planning on stopping by."

A month ago, he might have agreed, told him to get better, and hung up. This wasn't a month ago. "Is Alex with you?"

This time, his voice was more concerned and less groggy. "Isn't he with you?"

"No." Wolf had stopped pacing, only to start again.

"That's where he said he was going. In Lisbon, he mailed the letter to you and said he was going to stop over after dropping our reports off with Jones. I took the early flight because I thought I had hypothermia. Apparently it was some kind of bug." He sneezed again, audibly covering the speaker. "Sorry. But he _never_ visited you? I gave him the correct address."

"No," he repeated only somewhat patiently. "Did he ever hand the stuff to Jones?"

"I don't know. I'll call over on my work phone." There was a short cough and moments later the quiet beeps of keys pressed on a cell. He didn't catch anything from the low-pitched conversation, but by how short it was, he guessed their answer wasn't a good one. "The receptionist said she didn't know," Ben replied, returning to the phone. "Jones is getting a report or something from the MI5 building, but the receptionist says that she hasn't seen him during any of her morning shifts. Something's going on. I'm heading over to the office."

"Pick me up. I'm going with you."

Despite morning traffic, the anything-but-discreet black car was sitting against the curb, its driver waving a hand out the window. Locking the door behind him, he looked past the tinted, bulletproof windows and protected tires to raise an eyebrow at Ben. He had on a suit that made him look like an official driver for either an embassy or one of the big hotels. The spy tilted a chauffeur's cap at him, making the scar that ran across his left eye all the more evident, cocked a half-smile and said, "You have a meeting with Mrs. Jones about the security of your bank account."

Wolf shook his head, but opened the car door and took a seat in the back. "I didn't realize Halloween had been moved to April."

"It hasn't, unless you include April Fool's Day. This is how I go to work. Otherwise, it would be difficult to explain the car's over-the-top security measures." As he spoke, he drove with one hand to pull something from a dark backpack: an eye patch and a small silver box. Setting those on his lap, he reached up to rub at his scarred eye with a handkerchief, or so Wolf thought. He recoiled as the cloth was pulled away along with his left eye. They were set carefully in the box, which was replaced, and the eye patch was secured back around his head. "The local police find it very amusing that these expensive companies go to such lengths to protect their clientele… Wolf, you look a little pale. My driving's a little erratic, but I wanted to get there ASAP."

"It's not that. I just didn't know you could multi-task so well."

Ben glanced down at the box before he nodded understandingly. "You thought the eye was real. Smithers really did a good job with that, I have to admit. Completely electronic. I can only wear it for a couple hours before it makes me squeamish. The thing tracks my right eye's movements and copies them. It's just plain unnerving, so I take it out when it doesn't have to be in."

"But Alex said the doctors were confident that you would regain use of the eye within a month or something."

"Yeah. They did say that. Apparently trudging through sewer water changes things. It got infected the next mission we went on and had to be removed." He shrugged. "I didn't tell Alex, but there would have been problems if it healed anyway."

Wolf shook his head with a sigh. "You know, some people—we call them humans—actually care if they lose things like their limbs or eyes."

"Sure, but if they could have them replaced with mini computers, they wouldn't mind either. My new eye uses MI5's 3D facial recognition program to identify people and immediately sends the information back to MI6. It also makes this annoying little vibration whenever MI6 decides we've done enough and wants to bring us back in."

"Nice."

"Smithers thinks it needs to shoot lasers, but Jones won't permit it." He chuckled lightheartedly. "Alex asked if he could make goggles or glasses that could simulate that. I think he's jealous."

The Royal and General Bank loomed up ahead, and Ben pulled right up to the front. One of the men standing to the side of their grand set of double doors, ready to hold one open for you if he decided that you had authorization to be allowed in rather than meeting the taser concealed beneath his coat, approached the driver's side window. "Authorization, Mr. Daniels?" As Ben pulled a bundle of papers from the compartment in front of the passenger seat, he said under his breath, "Mrs. Jones did not mention that you would be coming."

"I didn't know either," Ben admitted, handing over the bundle. "Consider this a courtesy call, regarding Agent Rider. Oh, and SAS James Mendoza as guest."

"Ah." The papers were scanned so quickly that it appeared to be only a surface scan, as if he were looking for something rather than the actual print. They were returned, along with what looked like a credit card. A hotel's name was in raised print on the front. "Give him my regards. He's looking much better."

After he drew the window back up and shifted out of park, watching the traffic as he did, the car pulled back out on the busy street. "The doorman has to check everyone coming in who isn't fulltime and give them a pass to the back door. Perfect memory, especially for faces and behavior. He's more difficult to confuse than even Smithers' most foolproof security systems."

"What was the thing about Alex?"

"There was a sniper waiting for him when he left the building about two years ago. He pretty much owes his life to the doorman, who knew enough about emergency medicine to keep him alive until the paramedics got there. I think the doorman asks how he's doing every time we check in."

Alex had mentioned the sniper, but it didn't keep him from wondering what the scene must have looked like or which window the shot had come from.

_I drew my line across the sand_

_And set my flag in no-man's-land_

The garage turned out to be a couple blocks down and somewhat rundown. Whether Ben even noticed this while parking next to a car that cost a tenth of his own vehicle was beyond him.

"Don't they have some kind of protected garage so you don't have to park…here?"

"Sure, for the full-timers. We spies have to find our own spots. That way, someone tries to blow up headquarters, my car stays intact."

Wolf stared at him from the backseat with a wry look. "Your priorities are really skewed, aren't they?"

"I like to think so." He slung the backpack sitting on the passenger's seat across his shoulder. "Plus, there's an underground tunnel into the bank from here, so I don't have to walk all the way back."

Sure enough, when Ben slid the card along the side of the elevator panel, it popped open to reveal a small fingerprint scanner. "It also measures my pulse, so I have to be alive to get in."

"So when you turn into a zombie, you can't get back in?"

"Well that, or so somebody can't torture me into giving up my codes and then cut off my finger to get in."

"Optimistic as always."

The spy shrugged. "Reality's a bitch. Now if only we would advertise our security system so no one tries it out. I rather like my fingers."

As the letters 'GL' disappeared from the elevator's level indicator, the grimy silver doors slid open without the bell that would have accompanied the motion on any other floor. Beyond it, a dark unlit corridor with no end in immediate sight stretched forward. To Wolf, there was little difference separating this from a typical subterranean repair tunnel. From his backpack, Ben withdrew a standard flashlight. "Money saving, you know," he offered as he switched the beam on high. "Heating bills went up so a lot of the lighting was cut."

Surprisingly enough, the tunnel thankfully wasn't as long as it had seemed and at its end was yet another set of doors. There was...something…that happened during the next five minutes, between getting from those doors to standing outside Jones' office, but he just couldn't figure out exactly what it was. Ben waved a hand in front of his face. "You there?"

"Yeah, just a little… How'd I get here?"

The spy sighed, running a hand through his hair. "There are a couple regulations about having visitors. One of them is they can't know how to get in. Another is lots of paperwork afterwards." He paused, his hand hovering above the wooden door, about to knock. "Can I ask a personal question?"

"Shoot."

"Have you always been afraid of heights?" The look he received was enough to make him raise his hands in surrender. "I never asked."

He knocked on the door, and a voice drifted out into the hall. "Come in."

Jones was known throughout the office for her tendencies towards sucking on peppermints or crinkling their wrappers when she was stressed. Her facial muscles may never twitch to form smiles or frowns, but she certainly got her feelings across when she harbored enough of them.

With those rumors in mind, Ben grew uncharacteristically tense upon walking in. Her desk—formerly Blunt's as she had no intentions of putting funds to work making her office look pretty—was organized to an almost obsessive-compulsive degree. There were no fewer papers than the typically hectic and otherwise chaotic day would see neatly placed in their indicatively labeled plastic bins and filing cabinets. But today, there was a single thick manila folder on her desk, marring the clean void. Five sheets of paper were stapled together on top of it, the date and time inked along the length of each one. Ben could tell, even from the distance he stood at, that they were evidence of a phone conversation that hadn't gone well, but would remain filed away forever.

The evidence, however, that he didn't want to see were the plastic candy wrappers pinched and folded into tiny squares sitting beside that folder. She might as well have made a small army from them.

_But here I am the one-man band_

_With a song that's meant for two_

The woman herself was sitting primly behind her desk, hands folded in her lap and a peppermint in her mouth. You couldn't tell from the way she spoke, but when it crunched and jostled against her teeth, the nervousness became immediately apparent. "The doorman tells me that you are here about Agent Rider."

There were no longer any other seats in the room. Ben assumed it was also due to the budget cuts MI6 had recently suffered. Regardless, he remained standing. "Yes, he was supposed to visit Wolf and I, but never did. Alex isn't the kind to say something and do something else."

Mrs. Jones picked up one of the wrappers, almost as if she were inspecting it. "Your assessment is correct, Agent Daniels. Agent Rider never boarded his return flight, in fact, and we were alerted to this the second the plane landed without him. Were you not bedridden the week following your return, you would have been one of the men sent to Lisbon to locate him."

"And?" Wolf asked impatiently. "Where is he?"

She neglected acknowledging the tone of his voice for picking another red and white swirled candy from the crystalline tray in the corner of her desk. "By his own request, he will be on a flight to Waikato within the next two days." Two identical envelopes with stamps sealed on to the right-hand corner of each were pushed across the table. "I trust you understand what that means, Agent Daniels."

Seeing his name on one of them, Wolf grabbed the letter that would have been mailed later that afternoon and tore open the seal. He scanned through the contents before tossing it back on the table. "This says nothing except that he's been in some kind of accident. I don't understand. Why is he flying to this Wakato place?"

Ben, now numbly leaning against the wall, made no movement towards his own. "Waikato, Wolf. It's in New Zealand. A small region in the shadow of Mt. Tongariro. It's…" He looked up from his hands to Mrs. Jones. "What happened?"

The loose papers were shuffled into the manila file, revealing the name on the side: Alexander Rider. "There was a sniper."

_And there is a light _

_From a higher window_

_Shining down on you tonight_

"He's survived snipers before."

"As he did again. Agent Rider has always uncanny luck. All three shots that pedestrians reported hearing to local authorities were accounted for. No traces of blood were on any of them. That is the reason it took six weeks to locate him. By their reports, he fled the scene and hotwired a car. All indications point to a safe house in Cordoba as his destination. He had been given the location on a mission over seven months ago, but apparently retained the information."

"So is he…?"

"He never reached the safe house. Alex Rider died the very same day that he should have left the city. We found the car riddled with bullets and abandoned on the banks of Almada, barely twenty minutes away. His body was located in a park near Cristo Rei Sanctuary. The policeman who found him mistook him for a local. That was the second reason it took six months to locate him. The coroner never looked past the bullet in his head to realize that his hair was dyed and skin covered in makeup. It was lucky that his fingerprints had been put into their system in case identification was ever made." She popped the mint into her mouth before looking across her desk at the two pairs of dead eyes staring back. "His will states that he wished to be buried beside his brother—"

"—but he doesn't have a brother—"

"—and partner, Benjamin Daniels. As your own will states that you wish to be buried on the highest point of Mt. Tongariro, that is where he will go."

_And the music floats on the breeze_

_Bringing an easier time_

_And all of our cards are on the table_

_Tell me what you want to do_

"I have already assumed that you be on leave for the next month. You should find a one-way ticket in your envelope, Agent Daniels. I do not wish to see or hear from you until that month is over. As for you, Mr. Mendoza, my intentions were for a cover story to be made so that you and Dr. O'Reilly would not be made to grieve. If you should so wish, I will make preparations for the two of you to accompany Agent Daniels."

_Just don't tell me that it's too late_

_For me to love you_

"I would like to see him one last time."

_How perfect we were meant to be_

_Our warm and silent symmetry_

_It's times like these when all_

_All we need is to be reminded_

Ben and the remnants of K-Unit were far from being the only ones at the service in the small cathedral. There were a dozen MI6 operatives, office workers and spies alike, in their stereotypical black suits and dark glasses who divided their time between mourning the fallen spy and watching the other attendees and possible vantage points. The doorman, who had never taken a holiday in his life, had taken two days of leave to stand guard at the single door. "He will rest in peace," he assured them. Four CIA, one of which Ben could point out to Wolf as the head of covert operations, and another who identified herself to them as Tamara Knight stood in their own small group. The rest came on their own or in pairs, and appeared to be from a variety of agencies and organizations, representing a multitude of countries.

At the open casket was the only mourner who had been Alex's own age. Tom Harris was sitting steadfastly atop the coffin, talking throughout the entire hour to Alex, telling him what he had missed at school, the rumors that had followed his departure, the proceedings following his parents' divorce and his brother's recent move to Chicago, and anything else that passed through his mind. While many of those attending assumed he was going through the stage of grief referred to as denial, Ben correctly informed Wolf and Snake that this was his way of getting regret off his chest. The teenagers hadn't seen each other since the previous Easter, and Tom, who had always told the spy what he had missed in Chelsea, had not had that chance in nearly a year. Tom had time to grieve later when his friend's death sunk in. Right now, he just needed to talk.

As the hour passed, and those assembled began to depart, leaving small tokens and flowers on the coffin, Tom looked up at Wolf. "When I go home tomorrow, would you mind if I read the letters he sent back to you?"

"Sure."

_And I have flown a thousand miles_

_To empty rooms and crowded aisles_

At noon, and marking the hour's end, the bells began to toll their mournfully vibrant song.

_And we went from cathedral bells_

_To show-and-tell and wish-you-wells_

The sun crested over Mt. Tongariro's snow-tipped peaks. As Ben, carrying Alex's ashes in a small locked wooden box, arrived at some pre-determined destination that could have been straight out of a movie with its view of the stunning landscape, they were momentarily blinded.

_And I still look at you_

_And I am blinded_

_I am blinded_

No one could honestly say that they didn't shed a single tear, because they would have been lying.

* * *

><p><em>Because there is a light<em>

_From a higher window_

_Shining down on us tonight_

_And the music floats on the breeze_

_From an easier time_

_And all of our cards are on the table_

_Tell me what you want to do_

_Just don't tell me that it's too late_

_Don't tell me that it's too late now_

_Just don't tell me that it's too late_

_For me to love you_

* * *

><p>[Morti irrequieti somnum reperirat, et lux memorandi nostri eum porteat ad pacem aeternam.]<p>

* * *

><p>AN: Yes, I heard this song and thought, 'Snipers.' But this story plot was basically handed out free of charge by the wonderful and circle-drawing _KusajishiFukutaicho_. So if you want someone to violently murder, she would be the one.

I would have stopped with this being a one-shot, but had so many requests that _Believe _and _Higher Window_ became inevitable. Hope you enjoyed.

And please, please tell me in a short review if you cried. My pride and the ongoing bet with my sister count on it!


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